I look away before my face does something humiliating, like smile.
Too late.
His hand slides over my waist beneath the sheet, warm and possessive. It should make me more self-conscious.
Instead, it makes me giddy and want to move closer.
“Breakfast,” he says in my ear.
I blink. “What?”
“Breakfast.”
“In bed?”
“If you like.”
I glance toward the windows, where morning light spills in through curtains that are not fully drawn. Beyond them, I can see part of the garden. Dark evergreens. Stone paths. Something that looks like a fountain, because of course, Mario Conti has a fountain.
He follows my gaze.
“Or the garden.”
I stare at him.
He says it as if people regularly wake up, have astonishing sex flashbacks, and then wander into stunning and lush gardens for breakfast.
I pull the sheet tighter around myself. “I don’t have clothes.”
His gaze turns very deliberately amused.
“You have clothes.”
"Work clothes."
“You are not presenting before a judge.”
“No, I’m just walking through your house after spending the night here.”
“The house is empty.”
My brain catches.
Empty.
Right.
His sons are still gone.
His sons, who are only a few years younger than I am.
The sheet suddenly feels insufficient as emotional armor. The guilt starts building.
Mario sees the shift in my face immediately. “Victoria.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know you said they were gone for the evening, but it’s morning.”
“They are still gone.”
